


Treat me soft but touch me cool

by LiveOakWithMoss, TheLionInMyBed



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (eventually) - Freeform, Even more poorly executed invalid roleplay, Explicit Sexual Content, Fainting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Kink, Poorly executed doctor roleplay, Reference to unhealthy masochistic sexual practices, Referenced Trauma, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safewords, Scars, Swooning, all that good shit, healthy masochistic sexual practices, of the aggressively meta variety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-08-28 11:51:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8444752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLionInMyBed/pseuds/TheLionInMyBed
Summary: Maedhros asks a thousand brutal things in bed. Fingon asks just one. Or: what happens when Emily goes on vacation and leaves us unsupervised to invent swoon kink.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Люби нежно, трогай грубо](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11072949) by [rio_abajo_rio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rio_abajo_rio/pseuds/rio_abajo_rio)



"Maedhros?"

"Mm?" Maedhros set aside his abacus and looked up at Fingon with sharp grey eyes.

"Could you maybe..." Fingon bit his lip, suddenly ashamed of the image that had seemed so enticing but a moment ago. "No, never mind."

"What? Ask! It cannot be more shameful than the time I made you strike me about the face and address me as your thrall."

That had been less embarrassing and more extremely concerning. Fingon shuddered at the memory but this request was rather designed to help him put that aside. "Could you perhaps...swoon for me?"

Maedhros cocked his head, eyes narrowing in consideration. "Is this about Thangorodrim?"

"...Maybe. Thangorodrim and Alqualondë -"

"I did not swoon at Alqualondë - would that I had! Six Teleri might yet live."

"I-" Fingon stuttered, trying to put the feeling into words. "I want to save you."

"I would have thought you'd have had your fill of that by now," Maedhros said with a strange edge to his voice. "But far be it for me to deny you." He closed his eyes and suddenly went limp, sliding from his chair so suddenly that Fingon jumped.

 

* * *

 

He opened his eyes when he felt strong arms around him, and looked up into Fingon's distraught face.

"What? I did as you asked. Did that not arouse you?" He made to pat around in Fingon's lap to check, but Fingon just hung onto him tighter.

"I did not mean for you to actually hurt yourself! The crack when your head hit the floor - Maedhros, I swear I thought - "

Maedhros had actually been rather pleased with that effect. It had heightened the drama and added to the verisimilitude - not to mention giving him a sharp burst of pain similar to what he'd been aiming for with the thrall-play, and actually caused him to briefly lose consciousness.

"Added realism," he said, and stopped at the look on Fingon's face. "So me being wounded is not part of the titillation for you?"

"No!" Fingon looked almost angry. "That is not _my_ preference, it is yours. I get quite enough of you being wounded in real life for me to demand your pain in the bedroom - no, shut up, I will bring out the knives later if you really want - but I'd rather… I don't want to hurt you, I want to rescue you."

"You _have_ rescued me."

"I want to do it again." Fingon bit his lip. "Better."

Maedhros could on occasion be fairly dense when it came to reading his cousin, traumatic brain injury notwithstanding, but Fingon's thoughts now were as plain as the strong, rather handsome nose on his face.

 _I want the chance to hold you in my arms and comfort you, rather than you screaming and bleeding and cursing me. I want to catch you before you hurt yourself, pillow your head tenderly in my lap rather than hearing the dull thud of bone as you strike the rock. I want to gather you from your swoon and have you thank me, not roar at me in a language I cannot understand. I want you to blink awake in my arms and feel safe, rather than wake fighting me in the night, screaming_ not again -

"And now you're crying," said Fingon, woebegone, touching Maedhros's face. "We really need to work on your stage falls."

 

* * *

 

"I'm perfectly well," Maedhros said. He sniffed, scrubbed at his eyes and then left his hand dramatically draped across his forehead. "By which I mean my head aches terribly and I am much too dizzy to walk."

He closed his eyes and went limp in Fingon's arms. And then cracked one eye back open, apparently to check that Fingon was satisfied with his performance.

It was not, in truth, a very good one. For someone whose own sexual proclivities seemed to revolve so much around being bound and injured, Maedhros was astonishingly bad at letting himself be vulnerable.

He was trying though, for all that lying still seemed to take a great deal of effort, and Fingon's heart swelled with affection for the fierce, stubborn idiot he'd fallen in love with.

Gently - and he could be gentle now! - he ran his hands through Maedhros' hair, making a show of feeling for abrasions. It was difficult not to be distracted by the softness of it running through his fingers or by Maedhros leaning into the touch with slightly more vigor than was appropriate for an invalid.

"Does this hurt?" he asked, cradling the back of Maedhros' head in his spread hands.

"N- Yes," Maedhros said weakly.

"There is no healer - I must tend to you myself," Fingon lied.

"I trust you."

That at least was painfully sincere and Fingon smiled and pressed a soft kiss to his temple before scooping Maedhros up into his arms.

"Careful," Maedhros said, wrapping an arm about his neck. "I'm heavier than I was last time you did this." And then he remembered himself and looked absurdly guilty.

He was heavier indeed but that was no bad thing and Fingon's bedchamber was not far. Navigating the doorway with so awkward a burden was not easy but his arms were burning only a little when he laid Maedhros down upon his bed.

 

* * *

 

Maedhros let himself be laid down with care, and loved Fingon well enough to ignore Fingon's sleeve getting stuck under him and the ungainly tugging that ensued. Fingon smoothed Maedhros's hair back from his forehead and looked so tenderly at him that for a moment Maedhros wondered if he had forgotten he was not actually injured.

But maybe, he thought, in a burst of enlightenment, this was how Fingon always looked at him.

And he wondered what else he may have missed along the way.

He shifted against the coverlet and remembered to groan softly as he did. Fingon's eyes brightened appreciatively and Maedhros groaned a couple more times, allowing Fingon to make concerned, soothing noises.

"You are hurting," said Fingon tentatively. "May I touch you to feel for where the injury may be?"

Maedhros nodded and tried to decide where his 'injury' was. A shattered groin, he almost thought, hoping Fingon would try touching him there. But logic decreed he wouldn't be able to use anything that was broken, so he ruled it out. Legs were unlikely to have been damaged swooning from a chair, and his head had already been palpated, so...

"Ouch," he said automatically, before he ran out of options. And then, as Fingon froze, realized that Fingon's questing hands were on his right forearm.

"I mean," he tried to correct himself. "It's not so bad there. Actually more of a spasm. Check the other si-"

But Fingon was cradling his right arm, his fingers gently massaging the knotted muscle and tissue, and Maedhros felt furious with himself for making the pain in Fingon's eyes so real. He almost ended the game by sitting up and saying, "Let's just have a drink instead," but Fingon was speaking again.

"Lean back, sweetheart."

Maedhros winced - pet names were  one of the things he usually protested - but then let his mouth soften and did as Fingon said.

"Don't move too quickly or too much, let me...let me take care of you. Make yourself comfortable, and let me help."

Maedhros nodded, wondering if Fingon was going to go so far as to bandage him - an intriguing prospect - but instead Fingon merely slid closer to him on the bed. Maedhros shifted about, getting comfortable as instructed. His instinct was usually to stretch out as much as he could, Fingon's bed being one of the few in which he could actually do so without drooping off the edge. He kept himself relatively still, however, and ignored the muscle memory that told him to put his arms above his head so that he could be bound to the lined leather straps that hung from the bedposts.

Tonight was not for him.

When Fingon bent down to kiss him softly, Maedhros managed not to bite nor to open his lips and urge Fingon to ravage his mouth. He was an invalid, after all, and invalids preferred - _not looking not making eye contact no kisses no tenderness rough from behind no NOT THERE stop kissing me stop gentling me stop lo -_

\- invalids preferred gentleness.

Fingon kissed him like they were young again, like they were true and chaste and unsullied in the Light of the Trees. Fingon kissed him like they were innocent, like Maedhros was worthy.

And Maedhros kept his eyes open, so he could watch.

 

* * *

 

It was strange, very strange, for Maedhros to be looking at him so intently. Or, Fingon realised with an unhappy twisting in his chest, to be looking at him at all. When he did not insist upon a position that prevented Fingon from seeing his face or demand to be blindfolded, Maedhros still refused to meet his eyes and, now that Fingon had what he had so earnestly desired, he could not help but feel self conscious.

"I need to undress you now," he said, hoping he sounded more certain than he felt. "If that is alright?" He pressed another light kiss to Maedhros's lips because that much he was sure of.

Maedhros looked equally uncomfortable, though at least he had the excuse of being, ostensibly, injured. "I thought I was a better actor than this," he said with a small, embarrassed smile. "Please. Help me."

And so Fingon did, slowly and very carefully so as not to jostle Maedhros more than he had to. No frantic rending of fabric this, no force or bruising or lost buttons. The fastenings were designed to be worked one-handed and sprang open easily at his touch and Maedhros, after some awkwardness, found the right balance between being unhelpfully lax and too helpfully active, letting Fingon move him as he willed.

There was joy in the task - not the white-hot searing of desire that normally filled him when he drew open Maedhros's jerkin to show the fine skin beneath but a warm, quiet pleasure, long denied to him. Years ago, when Maedhros was still recovering, he had refused all Fingon's offers of assistance, allowing only servants dress him under the transparent pretext that this was a continuation of their normal service to a prince. Fingon could not blame his cousin too much for wanting to cling to what scraps of pride remained to him but it had hurt more than he would ever admit to see one he loved struggling and to have his aid so vehemently rebuffed.

The look Maedhros gave him when he had cast the last sock aside was nakedly hopeful but Fingon, too aware of the chill in the air, caught up one of the soft woollen blankets from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around him, drawing him in close.

"I'm going to light the fire," he said. "Will you be alright? Lie still," he meant to add again as Maedhros shifted in his arms, but it seemed he had caught the idea at last for he was only turning a little so that his head was tucked snugly beneath Fingon's chin, pillowed against his breast.

It was with no small regret that Fingon kissed his brow and set him down to go busy himself with the kindling, but Maedhros needed to be warm and Fingon too - his fingers did ache miserably in the cold.

When the flames had caught and grown enough to fill the room with warmth and rosy light, Fingon returned to the bed. Maedhros was still watching him, eyes shining in the firelight. Wordlessly he reached out and made a small, plaintive noise that made Fingon's breath catch as he folded Maedhros into his arms again.

The blanket had slipped free of one shoulder and Fingon kissed him there, feeling roughened scar tissue beneath his lips. Maedhros was covered with old wounds and with fresher ones from battles and from Fingon's hand at his command. Some were still raw and Fingon traced one cut, as gently as he could, with the tip of his finger.

Maedhros whined and, after a moment in which Fingon knew he was resisting the urge to press for more contact and discomfort, pulled away.

"This will not do," Fingon said, guilt and pleasure warring in his heart. "I must finish seeing to your arm and then to these." His chambers were very well supplied with soothing oils and lotions after all.

 

* * *

 

The light outside was long gone, but the flames leaped merrily in the grate, casting the room in flickering shadow. Maedhros shuttered his eyes to keep from spoiling anything; there had been times in the past when he’d looked too quickly at Fingon in certain lights and seen Fingon blanch at the glow.

Fingon’s chest was very comfortable, however, and despite the maddening tease of fingers on his skin, prodding just at the edge of delicious pain, Maedhros was actually enjoying the sensation of being curled against his cousin's warmth.

And so he could excuse the protesting noise that came from him, however pathetic, when Fingon extricated himself.

"I'll be back," Fingon promised, and went off to fumble in a cabinet.

There was a clinking of bottles, and Maedhros tried not to go rigid at the prospect of ointments and unguents. But when Fingon returned instead with a familiar cedar-smelling oil, he relaxed.

 _That_ was one that had not been used by the stern faced healer during his recovery, as she rotated his shoulder and made him act like a windmill ‘to retain mobility.’ The oil in the small gold decanter was not one commonly found in the infirmary, and Maedhros had enjoyed its benefits in the past. (It looked very well, he knew, spread across heated, dark brown skin, and kneaded into supple, begging flesh.)

Reflexively he spread his legs, but Fingon’s attention was fixed elsewhere. He worked the oil into the skin of Maedhros’s arm and shoulder, and Maedhros had less trouble than he’d thought keeping memories of the hatchet-faced healer from his mind. It was especially so when Fingon’s fingers traced the lines of his collarbone, and dug into the sensitive muscle of his neck, and followed up with a distinctly un-healer-y swipe of his tongue. It was maddeningly gentle and pleasurable, and Maedhros had tossed himself free of the blanket before he knew what he was doing.

“You’re feverish,” said Fingon softly, and Maedhros turned his growl into a pleading whimper halfway through.

“I’m so hot,” he whispered, forgetting to hood his eyes and gazing up at Fingon.  Fingon shivered and his hands moved over Maedhros’s chest, digging into the scant muscle of his pectoral. “Oh – ”

“You’re shivering,” Fingon observed, and ran his thumb over Maedhros’s nipple – the right one, the one that was more than a mass of scar tissue. Maedhros shocked himself by keening; the touch sent something electric straight to his groin, and he knew he was spreading his legs wantonly now, arching his hips off the bed.

“I’m delirious,” he said quickly. “Mad with fever. _Ahh,_  Fingon!”

Fingon had slid his other hand down Maedhros’s ribcage to the canyon dip of his pelvis. “Shh,” he murmured, “calm yourself. I am here.”

Maedhros swore fervently until Fingon narrowed his eyes and he stopped.

“Please,” he said instead. “I beg you – some relief.”

He half thought Fingon might refuse, but Fingon only bent to kiss the hollow of his belly. Maedhros stared at the ceiling, mentally planning his next invalid move, or perhaps a contrivance to get Fingon to give up the game and fuck him for –

“Eru’s _balls_. Fingon, hn – ” Maedhros choked, feeling Fingon massage the inside of his thighs, his mouth still pressed to Maedhros’s stomach. It was impossible for him to avoid the thin cuts that traced up Maedhros’s rawboned legs to his groin, and Maedhros growled his satisfaction. Fingon had made the cuts himself, not three nights before, and Maedhros closed his eyes and pictured Fingon crouched between his legs with a knife, blood and seed mingling as he let Maedhros’s cock drop from his lips –

“Am I hurting you?” Fingon’s lips moved against the skin of his stomach.

“Yes,” groaned Maedhros. “ _More – ”_ And when Fingon abruptly released him, he realized he had failed the test.

 

* * *

 

Fingon snatched his hands back, acid burning at the back of his throat. All the years he had indulged Maedhros's wants without begrudging him, finding pleasure and shame in equal measure, and this one thing was too much for Maedhros to grant? The tentative warmth, the feeling of _relief_ was gone, replaced with the same cold weariness he felt whenever Maedhros turned away from him after they made love ('fucked' as Maedhros always put it), his hurts and fears held tight to his chest where Fingon could not ease them.

"I'm still delirious," Maedhros offered, looking unhappy but not entirely repentant. "I don't know what I'm saying. You could restrain me," he added, offering up his arms. "I'm very sick and I might hurt myself."

"I'm not going to force you to do this." Though Maedhros might prefer it if he did, that was not what _Fingon_ wanted. He took Maedhros' arms and turned them so that he could stroke the delicate skin inside his wrists. "I only wish to give you what you deserve."

Maedhros shivered. "So do I."

There was an argument to be had there but it was one that they'd gone over far too many times before. Time for a new approach. Not for nothing had Fingon fought his people's war these last centuries; he had learnt his tactics well and knew that sometimes you needed to give ground to gain the greater victory. He let his voice grow firmer. "Which of us is the healer here?"

"You are," Maedhros said, dark eyed and suddenly very serious despite the enormity of the lie.

"And which of us knows what is best for you?"

"You do."

"So when I tell you to lie still and let me tend to you, you will?"

"Do as I'm told." He yielded to the pressure of Fingon's hand against his chest, lying back once more.

Fingon took up one of the other jars that he had taken from the cabinet, one that contained an ointment for soothing wounds and reducing scarring which smelt, only faintly, of beeswax.

As a challenge to himself, and to Maedhros, Fingon started where he had stopped, at the cuts between Maedhros's thighs. One hand on his knee to hold the leg open while the other stroked over the fine tracery of cuts, smoothing the hurt away with careful touches.

Maedhros shuddered which had, Fingon was certain, nothing to do with the coolness of the ointment but he stayed, obediently, very still. His arousal was quite obvious but Fingon ignored it, keeping his touches far too soft to do more than tease him. He moved on to the other leg, feeling his own desire rise as well. "You're safe. I have you," he whispered, and grew harder still when Maedhros relaxed against him, long legs ceasing to strain against his touch.

As a reward Fingon kissed his mouth - still softly but allowing the briefest brush of their tongues - and gave his cock a brief stroke. It was firm in his hand, slick with the grease on Fingon's hand and the precome gathering at the head.

" _Fingon!"_ Maedhros snarled in what was decidedly not the voice of an invalid, but his body stayed relaxed and receptive to Fingon's care.

"Ssh. Be easy. I have all of the rest of you to tend to."

 

* * *

 

Maedhros did not look at his own naked body if he could help it, but he knew that it was a winding river delta of braided scars and wounds, old and new.

"If you give each such thoughtful treatment," he said, "we will be here an age."

Fingon looked down at him, and there was a tension in his jaw that said he might quite like to hit Maedhros, if that hadn't been so patently what Maedhros desired.

"But," said Maedhros, reaching up to touch the hinge of Fingon's jaw until it eased and his lips unthinned, "I will gladly lie here any number of ages and let you tend me if you deem it necessary. I trust you," he said, and he knew that meekness was beyond him but sincerity at least he could give.

Fingon's mouth softened, and Maedhros let his fingers rest on the full lips he loved so well. "I am glad to be back with you," Maedhros said, and did not know quite where it came from. He hesitated a moment in confusion, trying to remember if they had established the backstory for his injuries, real or imagined. "I missed you," he said, even though falling from a chair could hardly count as being parted. He was no longer speaking of their game, and they both knew it. "Thank you for coming for me. Thank you for saving me, I know it was not easy. Help me," he pulled in a breath, struggling now with the words, stilted as they were, "help me recover."

Fingon's eyes were full of tears as he bent down to kiss Maedhros again, and then again, and then not letting them break for words. Soon he was half on top of Maedhros, using his forearms as a brace to keep his weight from crushing him, and Maedhros tangled his hands in Fingon's hair and murmured, "Be careful of my hurts."

Fingon hiccupped and nodded and kissed him once more, then sat back, gently settling himself over Maedhros's hips to retrieve the ointment. He traced the salve onto Maedhros's scars like he was writing Tengwar on his skin, and Maedhros closed his eyes and enjoyed the punctuating rock of Fingon's hips. It would feel even better if Fingon could get out of his clothes, but Maedhros was wary now of breaking the rules of the game. He let his fingers rest lightly on the waist of Fingon's breeches and said, "Please stop."

Fingon froze immediately and looked down at him, alarm clouding his features, his fingers still smeared with ointment.

Maedhros bit his lip and dropped his eyes. "It is only," he said huskily, "that my fever has made my skin so sensitive, and the material chafes unbearably..." He waited, wondering if this would be deemed within the parameters of the game.

Fingon's face lit with understanding and appreciation, and he nodded. Sliding free of Maedhros so that he could wriggle out of his clothes - Maedhros heard several buttons pop free in his healer's haste, and tried not to smile - Fingon was soon naked and as fine a panacea as Maedhros had ever beheld.

"Thank you," he said. "I think I shall be able to endure your treatment without discomfort now."

Now when Fingon re-settled himself over Maedhros, his heavy cock rested atop Maedhros's. Now when Fingon bent to his task, his fingertips moving over Maedhros's chest and ribs, Maedhros could press up against him and feel him throb in response. Maedhros closed his eyes and let breathy sounds escape him.

"I'm out of ointment," said Fingon in a stifled voice and Maedhros replied, as faintly as he could manage, "I think you've gotten the worst of them. Please, distract me from the pain."

He wanted Fingon inside him, wanted the slick drag of Fingon's cock to turn into pressure and penetration and - _roughness, intensity, force -_ but he refused to fail, yet again, at Fingon's desire. Instead he let Fingon press back his knees and fold him up, one strong hand now around them both, stroking with slow deliberation. He tucked his face into Fingon's neck and let his hips open, his muscles relax, his breathing deepen - and it took him a moment to realize that the low, eager moans he could hear were his own.

"Is this alright?" asked Fingon, his voice gone deep in Maedhros's favorite way.

"Yes," said Maedhros, deciding to tremble a little. "But go...go easy."

Fingon groaned and gathered him close and Maedhros tried not to grin in satisfaction at having found the right thing to say at last.

 

* * *

 

Although there was not enough ointment left for even the thin pretense of salving wounds, there was enough that Fingon's hand slid slick and easy over their cocks. Maedhros clung to him, rocking his hips into the movement but not fighting him for more friction and more force. His face had been pressed to Fingon's shoulder but now Maedhros pulled back to look up at him. His pupils were blown wide with arousal but it was a softer darkness than Fingon had ever seen.

He was also grinning and doing a very poor job of hiding it. Though it lay far outside the purview of the game, Fingon was too delighted to think of scolding him or masking his answering smile. Nowadays when Maedhros looked pleased with himself it was usually because something was about to die - indeed, he had worn a sharper version of that same smirk before tearing out an orc's throat with his teeth, which had made kissing him afterwards an awkward and rather messy experience. This look was softer and to see him uncomplicated happy - happy because he was pleasing Fingon and, Fingon dared to hope, being pleased in turn - was all that he had wanted out of this.

"Tell me," he said, "If you need me to go slower."

Maedhros bit his lip, no doubt trying to stifle the smile, but the effect was very charming. "Please. Please do. Your ministrations have helped much but- _Ah!_ I am still very fragile."

The gasp was not in response to pain but to Fingon skimming a thumb over the head of his cock. "You must tell me if you feel any discomfort," Fingon said, though his own voice was going ragged. He was clutching Maedhros so tightly that it was a struggle to keep his hand moving, his own hips twitching from the effort not to rut up against him. He had slowed only a little in response to Maedhros's plea - Maedhros was gasping and glassy eyed and tonight was not about torture of any sort.

"Fingon," Maedhros said, with a hitch to his voice that Fingon did not think was feigned. "Please. Would you...?"

"Ask," Fingon said, his voice more a growl than was fitting for his role, but he was too close now to bite it back.

"Kiss me," Maedhros said, and Fingon did, soft and tentative as the first time they had done so, and felt Maedhros gasp into his mouth as his cock pulsed in Fingon's hand, and came against his stomach. Fingon stroked him through his climax, not breaking the kiss even as his own broke over him.

The urge to collapse atop Maedhros was very strong - Fingon knew the weight would not bother him - but he could not bear to let the game end and so pushed himself off to lie beside him, one arm still draped across his chest.  

"Thank you," Maedhros said. His voice was rough as it ever was after they had lain together, despite the fact that this time he had not screamed at all, but there was a smile in it. "I feel much better."

Fingon had hoped that he might draw it out longer, enjoy this warmth and closeness while it lasted. But it would hurt less if _he_ was the one to break the embrace and so he sat up and reached for a cloth so he might clean up the mess of oil and seed that lay between them. He drew the rag over Maedhros's belly in long, slow strokes, keeping up the pretense that he was still sensitive with fever - that he still _needed_ Fingon - as long as he might.

But Maedhros did not pull away or roll over, not as Fingon finished tending him and started on himself, nor as he put the cloth away and lay back down, a careful hand's breadth of space between them. Instead Maedhros raised himself upon his elbow so that he might press a kiss to Fingon's damp cheek, and then the corner of his mouth gone soft with surprise. When he lay back, it was pressed close to Fingon's side and, when Fingon wrapped his arms around him, though he squirmed and fidgeted a little, it was seemingly only to get comfortable.

Though Fingon had not wanted to sleep at all, too desperate to enjoy every moment of this that he was allowed, the comfort of a body warm against his, the measured beat of Maedhros's heart and the slow, sure rise of his chest with every breath lulled Fingon into a peaceful slumber, Maedhros safe and snug within his arms.

 

* * *

 

Maedhros resolved to stay tucked into Fingon's embrace until he felt him fall asleep and he could carefully extricate himself and slip out for the night. Often he would make the effort to spend the night, if on the other side of the bed, but tonight he was sure the impatience he'd kept bottled up throughout their lovemaking - and _lovemaking_ it had been, he thought, astonished - would make anything but his own quarters unbearable.

Until Fingon fell asleep, though, he curled up and nuzzled under Fingon's chin, feeling him sigh with contentment and draw him closer. His arms settled around Maedhros's waist, and Maedhros drew one of his knees between Fingon's thighs to get more comfortable.

To his amazement, he felt no urge to pull away.

Experimentally, he closed his eyes and tucked his face against Fingon's throat, his legs tangled with Fingon's.

It was...tolerable.

As Fingon's breathing deepened and turned into gentle snores, Maedhros told himself now was the time to get up and leave. He told himself Fingon wouldn't notice until morning, and he'd surely understand. He still had some accounts to finish, notes that had been interrupted by his untimely swoon. The beads of the abacus rattled through his mind's eye and automatically, he counted them. Winter stores from Thargelion, liens from Himlad. Five tonnes, ten, fifteen, twenty - and a new row - and a shipment from the east - ten, twenty - livestock, that had to factor in, and how many new horses - twenty-five, thirty -

A massive snore shook him from his counting, and he realized with a start it had been his own. He'd fallen asleep.

In Fingon's arms.

That’s new, he thought hazily. What sorcery, what fresh devilry, what -

He yawned.

He could get up, he acknowledged, but it sounded like an effort to rise, find his clothes, and leave, and besides, there was ointment on the floor and he might slip.

Couldn't let himself get hurt, he thought in some amusement. At least not until Fingon was awake and prepared to take care of him.

And so he nestled closer to Fingon's heartbeat and fell asleep, but not before he'd given his cousin's collarbone a sharp bite.

For appearance's sake.


	2. Chapter 2

When, upon drawing to a halt in Barad Eithel's courtyard, Maedhros sighed something unintelligible and slid bonelessly from the saddle, Tuluspen was not entirely surprised. She'd seen the spear that had taken him in the shoulder and even a man with her lord's fortitude and utter indifference to pain could only lose so much blood.  

She was also not surprised when the crown prince pushed his way through his guards to kneel upon the stones beside her, oblivious to the muck besmirching his fine robes.  

"It is serious, my lord," she said tactfully for his expression - one of barely suppressed excitement - was not even slightly appropriate for the situation. "With your leave, I'll send for healers."

"I shall take care of him," said the prince with a determined jut of his strong jaw. 

Tuluspen sighed, knowing too well what he meant by that. "My lord? I fear this is beyond your skill to heal." She gestured to Maedhros's pale face and the too-rapid rise and fall of his chest. "If the subclavian artery is nicked-"

But Prince Fingon was already drawing her lord up into his arms. "Do not worry yourself, Tuluspen," he said, not even slightly discomforted by the dead weight he carried. "His hurts will be well tended."

Maedhros's head lolled and fat droplets of blood fell from the tips of his limp fingers to splatter upon the cobblestones. Tuluspen tried one last time; "This isn't a game, sir."

"I'm taking it very seriously." The prince pressed a kiss to his cousin's clammy brow and turned away, heading inside towards, Tuluspen knew from experience, his own chambers. 

She went for the healers anyway and, not five minutes later, was standing ready before the prince's door when it flew open. 

"Ah- Tuluspen?" Prince Fingon's face was pale and there was blood smeared down one cheekbone and across his lips.

"My lord?" 

"I think we might be in need of a healer."

Tuluspen was far too professional to roll her eyes. "Yes, my lord."

 

* * *

 

Maedhros woke and the first thing he saw was his brother, sitting by his bedside.

"Oh good, you're awake," said Maglor placidly. "I hope you're feeling svelte; losing that many liquid pounds of blood really does a lot to slim a man down."

"Shut up," rasped Maedhros. "Where is - " 

"Your would-be murderer?" Maglor gestured with his chin. "Asleep in his chair, apparently worn out from nearly killing you. You're lucky Curufin's not here, you can bet he'd be darkly insinuating an assassination attempt by means of exsanguination, though why the exsanguination had to be done in the nude - "

Maedhros pushed himself shakily into an upright position; Fingon was slumped in a chair on the other side of his bed, deep shadows under his eyes, crusted blood on his cheek, and his breeches laced up the wrong way.

Maedhros looked at him a long moment, wanting to brush the hair out of his face and kiss the trouble from his brow, but decided against waking him. He turned instead back to Maglor. 

"And what of your role in my exsanguination?" he said quietly. "You saw me take that wound, and you're the one who urged me onto horseback and thence to the castle, rather than seeing the field physician."

"I confess," said Maglor, twiddling his fingers, "that I had rather the same thought as our cousin. Knowing his preference as I do for, hem, 'taking care of you', I thought that you were merely giving a particularly moving performance. I was going to compliment you on your stagecraft, in fact."

Maedhros glowered. "And so you allowed me to nearly bleed out while Fingon shouldered all the guilt for what was only an accident - "

"You're awake!" Fingon had started from sleep, and immediately reached for Maedhros.

Maglor rose to his feet, straightening his clothes. "I'll leave you to your convalescence."

Maedhros ignored his smirk and his exit, turning his attention to Fingon, who was pale with concern and already halfway onto the bed.

"My love, I cannot tell you - I was so worried - I am so _sorry - "_

"Don't be," said Maedhros. "No harm done." He looked ruefully at the blood on Fingon's face; this was likely to put him off the more athletic of their pursuits for at least a week.

Fingon took his hand. "How are you now?

"Fi- It's hard to say." Maedhros sighed expressively and sank back against the pillows, making sure his bare chest was well exposed. "I am feeling so very _faint_  right now. Perhaps you could...succor my hurts?" 

The way Fingon's face lit up was all the balm Maedhros could ask for. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. "But wait!" you cry. "Does he even have enough blood left to get it up?"  
> The answer is no. No, he does not. At least he's not on a horse this time.


	3. Chapter 3

Sometimes, in the course of their games, Maedhros wondered if it would work in reverse. Wearing nothing but bandages and a pint of borrowed blood, arranging himself on Fingon’s chaise longue so he could be discovered when Fingon got out of petty court, Maedhros bided his time wondering how it would be if they one day switched roles. He speculated on how it would be to have Fingon act the helpless one and he the dutiful healer, how it would be to balm Fingon’s imaginary hurts with tender words and seven new kinds of oil, including the one that heated on contact. His curiosity was never strong enough to drive him to find out, but eventually the choice was taken from him and he got his answer.

It _didn’t_ work, not even a little.

Fingon had injured himself, badly, doing something he shouldn’t have, a fact they both knew and a fact which helped Fingon’s fury at his circumstances not at all. Maedhros had tried not to point this out and failed, and they had fought, and while they were given every opportunity to turn Fingon’s convalescence into play, it seemed destined to turn only into disaster. Maedhros was not built for gentle nursing and Fingon was not built for lying still and accepting it and neither were built for compromise. As a result, their long friendship and the deep love between them was at the brink of disintegrating and Maedhros was nearly impatient enough to let it.

Fingon tossed himself free of the blankets and scowled blackly as Maedhros approached him with a poultice.

“If you bring that foul-smelling thing near me I will eat your other hand.”

It was not the first time Maedhros had been threatened with cannibalism and Fingon did not have the fangs to back it up, so Maedhros ignored him. “The healers said – ”

“To hell with the healers.”

“ – and I agree – ”

“To hell with you too.”

“ – that you need to care for the open wounds or they will fester.” Maedhros took a deep breath and tried to remember some of their games. He put on a playful expression that just made Fingon look suspicious, and said, “Come, my lord, let me smooth this balm over your supple and, uh, susceptible skin.” This close he could see the color of Fingon’s flesh and he frowned, losing his grip on both his flirtatious expression and vocabulary.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Fingon crossed his arms and his lips went white as his broken arm protested. He was too stubborn to uncross them, though, Maedhros noted. “That paternalistic, know-it-all - ”

Maedhros put his head to the side, well aware it made him look like a disheveled gargoyle rather than coquettish and endearing. “Don’t you want me to ease your hurts?” he said, attempting the voice Fingon sometimes used during their bedplay.

It didn’t work. “I want you to wipe that condescending look off your face.”

Maedhros held onto cajoling tenderness for as long as he could, even knowing it was futile. “But my beloved cousin, if you – ” Fingon blew a raspberry and him and Maedhros’s patience snapped. His voice changed to the tone he used on insubordinate soldiers. “Let me take care of you properly or you’ll be the worse for it. You didn’t even let me clean out the wound properly with all your whining - you should feel _lucky_ I only used tweezers. In Angband I had to use my teeth while I watched the thrall beside me die in gangrenous agony.” Somehow this illustrative anecdote did not mitigate the situation, only making Fingon more mutinous.

“Do you _always_ have to do that?”

“Do what?”

“Denigrate my pain just because you suffered worse!”

“I’m not,” said Maedhros. “Even though I did. And your pain is exactly what I am trying to help. You’re being self-pitying and antagonistic and when has that ever aided in recovery?”

Fingon looked outraged. “You are a fine one to talk!”

Maedhros ignored him. He was rapidly approaching the edge of his tolerance, already wound tight with worry over Fingon’s injury. “Listen, if you don’t let me put something on it, you’re going to be dealing with hatching maggots. Do you want that, you wretched brat?”

“Maggots can’t possibly be more annoying than you!”

 

* * *

 

Maedhros' lips thinned and, with excessive care, he set the poultice down upon the nightstand. "I'll leave you to rest then, my lord." He only addressed Fingon so when they were abed together or when he was annoyed past all tolerance, and only _one_ of them was confined to bed rest.

"That's right," Fingon called at his retreating back. "Things are getting uncomfortable. Time to swan off again."

He didn't get the pleasure of seeing his cousin's face as the jibe struck home but Maedhros closed the door with far more force than was necessary, so hard that one of the interminable bottles of unguents upon the nightstand fell and shattered upon the floor, sending up a stink of rose petals. Fingon gagged and swore but there was no one to hear him and no one to clean it up.

With a sigh, he rolled over and buried his head in the blankets smelling, underneath the fragrance of clean sheets, the sweetness of infection.

The worst part was, Maedhros was right and Fingon _knew_ he was. He could hear the petulance in his own voice and could not seem to arrest it. Every time Maedhros left Fingon wished him back, wished for his cool, comforting hand upon his brow and the soothing rumble of his voice, and every time Maedhros came to him, Fingon whined and needled and cursed him until Maedhros left him, hurt and angry.

A knock sounded at the door, too tentative to be Maedhros back to apologise. "Come in," Fingon called when it did not sound again but the creak of floorboards made it very clear that whoever was outside intended to wait.

It was a servant, clad in blue and silver, who glanced nervously at the puddle upon the floor, the bedclothes all in disarray, and the stormy look upon her lord’s face. She stepped into the room at Fingon's nod and took up the abandoned poultice, then hesitated, uncertain.

Forcing a smile, Fingon unfolded his arms and, gingerly, held out the broken one so that she might press it to the wound. His arm _hurt,_ his skin itched and he felt foolish and helpless and bored, but it would be beyond churlish to take out his temper upon someone who had no choice but to serve him. Maedhros must have known. Must have sent her to tend to him for that very reason.

One more thing to hate him for.

 

* * *

 

Maedhros stalked the ramparts and thought of all the very good points he could have made to Fingon. That Fingon was lucky to have the resources available to him that he did. That there were many not so fortunate. That he should be comforted in the knowledge that it could be far worse - Maedhros could personally attest that a broken arm and ripped shoulder were painful, but not in comparison to other torments. That while the treatments may be unpleasant, the alternative was worse. He had given Fingon a lecture on the life cycle of maggots that he thought had stuck, but apparently not.

And truthfully, his lecture had only resulted in Fingon turning away - to retch, Maedhros had first thought, with a pang of regret - and then back, in order to throw a glass of water at him. It had missed, which had worried Maedhros more than Fingon's pallor or mood or the blood on the sheets. A Fingon too weak to aim, too weak to strike him from such a short distance, was a very ill Fingon indeed. It was this worry nagging at him now that drove him back from the ramparts to the Prince's quarters, however reluctantly. He knew Fingon would snap and snarl and their time together, usually treasured and sweet, would be unpleasant. But he had to make sure that Fingon was remembering to keep drinking water now that his glass had been spent.

Maedhros nodded curtly to the servant exiting, making her jump and bow hastily, and caught the door before it closed, stepping back into the room. Fingon was curled on his side now, his arm tucked to his chest. His colour was slightly better but his misery was as thick in the air as the smell of herbs.

His eyes flickered to the door as Maedhros let it fall closed, and there was a flash in his eyes like relief before it turned once again to gloom.

"Back to scold me?" he asked dully, and Maedhros crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Maybe." Maedhros lifted a hand and laid it to Fingon's brow. Fingon's eyes closed, and Maedhros thought he could see wetness beneath the heavy lashes. "I am sorry I am not as good at playing the doctor as you would have me be."

Fingon's eyes snapped open again, damp and glittering with temper and fever. "I don't want you to play doctor _at all_ , Maedhros, I want to get out of this damned bed!"

Maedhros ground his teeth and held back his retort - that Fingon had already rebroken his arm once getting up before he was ready, and made the whole thing worse - and instead laid his hand on Fingon's good shoulder. "You know you can't."

A sudden inspiration struck him: he might be terrible at playing doctor, but keeping Fingon lingering in bed, _that_ he had shown some talent at.

So when Fingon opened his mouth to complain again, Maedhros leant down and stopped it with his tongue. Fingon tasted sour, like illness and complaint, but Maedhros felt reassured by how his good hand knotted in Maedhros's hair almost immediately. His strength there at least was good. His kisses were less so, made awkward by the angle and by their frustration with each other, but Maedhros persevered, pushing Fingon back on the pillows and tugging open his nightshirt.

"Ow - ," Fingon started to say when the material snagged on his bandages, but then he clamped his lips shut. "No, don't stop, you hideous tease."

Whatever Fingon said, his arousal was far from pronounced as Maedhros hunkered down on his elbows over his groin. He took Fingon's limp cock in his hand and stroked it, but Fingon's blood was slow to rise and that made Maedhros tense and anxious again, worried by the implications. He glanced up to check that Fingon was conscious so frequently that Fingon finally cuffed him around the ears and said, "For Eru’s _sake_ suck my cock already, you goblin."

Maedhros did so with rather more vengeance than was strictly necessary, and he felt only the barest remorse at Fingon's flinch.

 

* * *

 

For a moment, with Maedhros crouched over him, mouth upon his cock, Fingon felt almost like himself. Insufferable goblin or not, Maedhros was very skilled and knew exactly what Fingon liked. As the pleasure built, he twisted his hands in the sheets, tensing involuntarily when even that small movement stabbed needles through his arm. Maedhros felt it and looked up at him, more concern in his grey eyes.

“Shut _up_ ,” Fingon told him. “Finish what you started,” and Maedhros, who at least had had the sense not to stop sucking his cock, bent to his task.

It took a long time, long enough that Maedhros had to stop and work a cramp out of his neck, but for Fingon, who was finally able to forget the pain and helplessness and guilt in the slick working of his lover's throat and tongue, it was over far too quickly.

He spent with a shudder and a cry and lay a moment, replete, thinking of nothing. But then Maedhros was stroking his thigh, too gentle and too comforting, and the blankets were too hot and too restrictive, and his arm _still_ hurt.

Maedhros pressed a kiss to Fingon's stomach and sat back. "I need water. As do you."

And he was back to treating Fingon like a child. "I want wine," he said, just to be contrary.

Maedhros ignored him in favour of getting up and rummaging through the medical detritus on the dresser until he came up with an ewer and an earthenware cup. He drank first, rinsed his mouth out and spat into the empty chamber pot, and then pressed the cup into Fingon’s good hand. "Drink some. You know how I worry - do it for my sake if not your own."

Fingon did, in truth, feel awful. Hot and scratchy-headed, worse and worse as the lingering pleasure of his orgasm faded. He hesitated and Maedhros added, “Do you know what dehydration does to a person? In Angband they kept us without water so long I saw a woman suffer seizures. When she’d stopped moving, the other thralls were so thirsty that they-”

“Stop it!” he said and threw the cup at Maedhros. He was closer now, the throw stronger, and he felt a burst of vindictive pleasure when Maedhros was forced to duck to avoid it taking him in the head. Even so, it wet his hair and tunic. “Stop treating me like I’m something to be _managed_.”

"Then stop forcing me to treat you so," Maedhros said, looking pointedly at the broken shards of pottery.

"You aren't even trying to understand," Fingon snapped, folding his arms again. This time he was so angry he scarcely even felt the pain of the bones shifting. "You won’t let me do anything, not even tie my own bootlaces. You’re acting like I’m a cr-" He stopped himself so abruptly he almost swallowed his own tongue.

But not fast enough. "Like a _what_ , Fingon?" Maedhros said with a dangerous edge to his voice, one Fingon never heard directed at himself.

It was hard to feel righteous then, but Fingon had a lot of practice. "An invalid."

Maedhros drew a breath, held it and let it out in a hiss. When he spoke again his voice was level. "You'll be better sooner if you give yourself time to heal."

"Get out." Fingon closed his eyes. He felt dizzy and he was sick of having this same stupid argument again and again. It felt like there was a balrog lairing behind his eyes, baking them dry with their fires, and all his joints ached, not just his arm. He'd never been this sick before, not in Valinor, not upon the Ice, and he wished Maedhros would give him his sword and something to kill or leave him alone to sleep, anything but this pointless bickering.

Booted feet crossed the room to him and then cold fingers brushed his brow, so cold Fingon thought at first he'd been touched with the steel hand and not the flesh one.

"You're feverish," Maedhros said from somewhere high above him. "I'm sending for the healer again."

_No. No. How am I supposed to take care of you like this?_

The fingers were withdrawn as swiftly as if there truly were a balrog. "I don't _need_ you to take care of me," Maedhros snarled and Fingon realised that he must have spoken aloud.

He was up again in an instant. The room lurched alarmingly but he ignored it. "And I don't need you to take care of _me_ ! Get out!! I'm your liege lord and I _command_ you to get out of my sight, you- you wretched, conniving-" Fingon groped with his good arm and seized another bottle of tincture, "-Orc!"

It would have spoken volumes, had Fingon been in a mind to listen, that Maedhros did not argue further, and did not try to duck that bottle. It caught him high upon the cheek, not breaking but raising an angry welt. Fingon stared- he had hurt Maedhros before but only ever at his request and never had he taken any pleasure in it. It was a relief then that it did not please him now. His stomach dropped and he raised his hand - the wrong one, his bones screamed in protest - but Maedhros had already turned upon his heel.

This time he did not slam the door but closed it with such care that Fingon did not even hear the click of the latch.

 

* * *

 

Maedhros shut the door behind him silently, even though he was shaking with such fury that his hand rattled on the knob. He turned and walked almost directly into the healer.

"This prince is very unwell, _tend to him,_ " he snarled at her, and when she blanched and drew back, he realised he had not spoken in Sindarin.

Or Quenya, for that matter.

Well, at least Fingon's parting epithet would be accurate, he thought, bitterness darkening the corners of his vision. Still shaking, he strode down the corridor, wiping his tacky fingers on the corner of his cloak. He would leave, of course, not because he was commanded to do so, but because he didn't think he could stand the sight of Fingon's face. Couldn't stand the thought of his presence, of that familiar, lovely voice roughened by illness and temper, of his wretched complaining, his miserable, pained contortions and the clear discomfort in his reddened eyes -

Cursing, Maedhros stopped before he walked into a wall. Once again, anxiety was mingling unpleasantly with anger in his stomach and the result was a feeling like he wanted to vomit, or weep.

Refusing both childish urges, he shook his head blindly and tried to remember where the stables were. Surely not _up_ these stairs, and surely not to the west, but it seemed rage had scorched out his short term memory.

A hand caught his elbow and he spun, ready to tear out a throat.

The hand released him very quickly. "Hallo, nephew."

Lalwen was standing at ease beside him, her close-cropped hair bristled from the wind, an eyebrow raised in true Finwion style. "You look lost."

"I am fetching my horse," said Maedhros, unfathomably relieved to hear the words come out in Elvish. "I am leaving."

"Well," said Lalwen, after some consideration. "I highly doubt your horse is in the scullery, and I have to say we expected you for longer. Is Fing- "

"He does not wish me around," said Maedhros, fighting the urge to snarl and slam his metal hand against the stone. "He has said so, you can ask. And when you do, you can tell him I am obeying his _orders_."

"I am too old to act as your go-between," said Lalwen, unfazed by Maedhros' glare. "And besides, it was more fun dealing with youthful love notes than pissy, petty husband quarrels."

Maedhros felt the throat-tightening urge to cry again and remedied it by spitting on the flagstones.

Lalwen wrinkled her nose. "Honestly, Nelyafinwë, what would your mother say?" Then she examined his face and her expression softened. She looked like she wanted to take his elbow again, or even hug him, but thought better. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Maedhros ignored her and stomped away from the scullery, finally remembering where the stables were located.

"You really are leaving, then." Lalwen was following him. "Is your-cousin-who-shall-not-be-named doing better, at least?"

"He's doing worse," said Maedhros shortly. "But that is not my problem."

It was, though, and the truth slowed his boots. Lalwen was quiet as she watched him saddle his horse and tighten his scant saddle bags - he rarely brought much but a change of clothes to visit Hithlum, knowing Fingon would provide all else he needed. Fingon, usually generous to a fault, always gave him more than he could ever need. Maedhros thought of his cousin, his skin grey but his cheeks flushed, the horrible grind of bones as he had raised his hand, the dampness of his eyelashes, the pain in his thinned lips -

When was the last time he'd seen Fingon in such pain?

Never.

What if something happened to Fingon and he wasn't there?

Again.

What if Fingon needed - What if Fingon wanted - _What if something happened to him?_

He stopped, his hand jerking against the reins so that his horse showed her teeth.

"Sorry," he muttered to her and to the silent, patient figure of his aunt. He slumped forward, resting his forehead against the mare's withers. He couldn't leave Fingon, ill as he was, in the hands of healers who would not bully him to eat and drink and take his medicine lest they be rude to the prince. It should be him nursing Fingon back to health, enduring Fingon's pain and temper regardless. How much of his own bile and spite had Fingon had to endure - and did, cheerfully and willingly? How many times had he thrown Fingon’s gentle care back in his face, driven wild by his own pain? Countless.

He could not leave, but Fingon did not want him there. Fingon had ordered him away.

He fumbled in his saddlebags, feeling for something, and his fingers seized on a long metal cylinder - a gift from Curufin, who gave unpredictably and gracelessly but inevitably items of use.

Spyglass clutched in his hand, he turned to Lalwen. "Is there a campsite within sight of the eastern tower?"

 

* * *

 

If Fingon were to look on the bright side, the burning restlessness that had driven him from his bed and onto his horse half healed and left him with his arm twice broken had vanished along with Maedhros.

It was not, he thought, sufficient consolation. The servants cleaned up the broken crockery, wary because of whatever Maedhros had said on his way out, or because they could see the look in Fingon's eyes. He forced his face into a smile, took his medicine and mouthed platitudes until he almost believed them himself.

When the room was tidy and the sheets changed and he was alone once more, Fingon cried a little. It was pointless and self-pitying and that knowledge just made him cry harder.

He stopped eventually, because it was making his head hurt and because there was no Maedhros to feel bad for driving him to this or to comfort him. Not that he _wanted_ to be comforted. He didn't know what he wanted, other than to be well again.

Now, though, he could focus on healing as he wished to without being prodded and patronised. He resolved to get well swiftly just to spite his insufferable fool of a husband.   

 

* * *

 

Healing was not, alas, as simple as all that. He woke the next morning feeling, if anything, worse than he had the previous day. He gritted his teeth and, with the same determination that had carried him across the Helcaraxë, allowed the healers to poke and prod and tut over him, with seemingly less effect than all Maedhros' ministrations. He walked a slow, careful circuit of his chambers and then, when that exhausted him, returned to bed. He ate the gruel provided, drank the vile herbal concoctions, and felt his fever recede not a whit.

He could not be blamed, Fingon knew, for reacting badly to Maedhros' condescension and one-upmanship, but if Maedhros was to apologise then Fingon would accept it. Whether Maedhros was insufferable and patronising or not, he had wanted Fingon well, Fingon was not too miserable to see that. He should not have shouted or thrown anything. He should not have ordered him.

There was nothing for it. He would apologise too, once Maedhros returned.

But Maedhros did not return. When the room dimmed and the door swung open, Fingon was jolted from his restless doze and sat up straight, but it was only the servants come to light the lamps.

 _Is my cousin without?_ he almost asked but bit his tongue.

Maedhros did not come to him that night. Nor did he come with the dawn and Fingon began to worry. What if Maedhros did not return at all? He did not hold grudges as his brothers did but he was as stubborn as any of their House.

He slept a great deal, fretted, and tolerated the ministrations of his healers without complaint, too busy tormenting himself to feel the pain as they prodded at his wounds and pronounced them closing nicely. What if Maedhros had made for Himring but was assailed by orcs along the way, and Fingon was unable to ride to his rescue? Maedhros only had one hand and, while he always seemed to do well enough with it, Fingon knew now how restrictive it could be. He would tell Maedhros that too when he returned.

But Maedhros did not return.

It was the morning of the third day since their fight when the door swung open and Fingon bit his tongue to keep from crying his cousin's name.

"Ugh," said Lalwen. "It reeks of brooding in here." She strode across the room - Fingon envied her the ability to stride - threw the window wide and waved vigorously to someone outside. "Have you two still not made up?" she asked, resting her elbows upon the sill.

Fingon's freshly found resolve wavered. "Who says that we have fought?"

"Why else would you be brooding so? Even your broken arm did not render you _quite_ this insufferable." She ran her hand through her hair, teasing it into ragged points. "But even could I not have guessed, I had it from him."

"You've seen him? When? Is he well? Has something happened to him?"

"An overly inquisitive badger, I believe. Are you telling me you've been lying in here sulking and he's been out there sulking and you've not communicated once these past two days?"

"Where is he?"

"I _told him_ I was too old for this." Lalwen turned back to the window and waved again, and then beckoned. There was a pause and then she shrugged and beckoned again more emphatically. And then threw up her arms in disgust and turned back to Fingon. "He's on his way. He and two confused shepherds."

 

* * *

 

Maedhros had endured far worse and far longer expeditions, but something about this one - his misery, his worry, the badger set he had apparently pitched his tent on - made it almost unbearable. Within a day he stank like he'd been on the road for a month, and even his flesh hand was looking tarnished with grime. He sat by the entrance to his tent, spyglass pressed to his eye and his camping gear lumped up around him in defence against the badgers. His site was on a gentle rise, and it gave him surprisingly good views of the third window on the eastern tower - Fingon's.

He resolved, if he was ever invited into Barad Eithel again, to mention that there was far too easy a shot from this hill to the prince's window. To be sure, an enemy would be wily indeed to make it this close in, but still, with a good longbow -

Then he wondered if he should keep it to himself lest they make up only to fight again and he needed this lonely hilltop again in order to spy on his estranged lover.

It was a grim thought.

He counted the servants that went in and out of Fingon's room, noting that they were on a frequent rotation - either they were preventing any one person from having to spend too long nursing the prince, or his condition warranted vigilant care.

He pressed the spyglass so tightly to his eye that it drew bruises.

Fingon himself looked relatively unchanged. When Maedhros could see his face, turned upwards for the healers and servants, it often had a smile on it, which was annoying. He made a list of attendants who made Fingon smile too long or laugh too true, so that he could keep an eye on them. There was one young footman, a handsome brunet who wore his livery too well for Maedhros' liking, who had a tendency to linger at Fingon's pillow.

"Move along, whelp," growled Maedhros from behind his spyglass. "Don't you have silver to polish elsewhere?"

He rose with the dawn on the third morning and had his glass out even before he'd eaten the jerky and dried berries that constituted every meal on the hilltop. Mornings were always when his anxiety was the worst, having not been able to check on Fingon during the night, and he lived with the dread of finding some horror had taken him while Maedhros slept.

He did not see Fingon; his cousin was likely still lying flat, he thought, or else -

But before his mind could take him to the worst case scenario, a figure appeared at the window so abruptly that Maedhros poked himself in the eye.

The figure spread its arms and waved like a windmill.

Maedhros raised the glass to his watering eye and looked again. It was Lalwen, mouthing something and rolling her eyes dramatically. She gestured like a semaphore again, and then unmistakably beckoned.

Something _has_ happened, Maedhros thought, and he broke camp so swiftly that he left one of his saddle bags to the badgers.

 

* * *

 

When he arrived outside the prince's chambers, having run up three flights of stairs, crashed into a serving trolley, and scared three servants and a child, Maedhros was out of breath.

He burst into the room, which was empty of aunts, handsome brunets, and death.

It contained Fingon, though, who was dozing propped against the pillows. He looked exhausted and thinner than usual, but very much alive, and Maedhros wanted to cry with relief. Instead, he stumbled across the room and dropped onto the end of the bed. Wrapping his arms around Fingon's blanketed feet, he lay his head on them and tried to get his breathing under control.

He raised his head only when the feet he was clutching nudged him. He looked up and Fingon was watching him, a mixture of relief and amusement on his face.

"You're a terrible cat," he said, his voice raspy. "And a worse husband. Come here and kiss me before I die of missing you."

Maedhros crawled up the bed and did.

 

* * *

 

Arranging herself, Maedhros’ spyglass, her star charts, and her mug of tea upon the tower roof, Lalwen decided that helping the most irritating of her nephews reconcile was not without its advantages. If she was entirely honest, several of her nephews were significantly more irritating, if only because they were significantly less self-absorbed and thus prone to dragging her into their dramas through intent and not proximity.

The spyglass was excellent, the work of one of the most annoying of her nephews if she was not mistaken, and she was just settling in to observe what her calculations promised would be a gorgeous rain of shooting stars when the thumping began. And the growling. And the _dialogue_.

There was a balrog and a dramatic rescue but who was playing the rescuer, who the rescuee and who the balrog was the subject of some confusion.

Still, if Fingon was attempting to rescue Maedhros from himself, unintentional thematic resonance aside, at least their bickering was good natured this time.

And increasingly sexually charged.

Did Fingon have no consideration at all for the ears of any maidenly aunts that might have scaled fifty feet of sheer wall and alighted, unannounced upon his roof? Lalwen rather wished the thumping was louder, for it was utterly failing to drown out the moans.

“Young love,” she told herself and contemplated going for a bucket of water.


	4. Chapter 4

“Fingon, wake up.”

“Nmph.”

“I made breakfast.”

“Gwmf.”

“They’ve sounded the alarms, my king. Enemies at the gates.”

The voice was wrong - not deep or hoarse enough - but the words dragged Fingon out of dreams and into baffled wakefulness. _“What?”_ He reached for the sword that should be beside the bed but the room was all wrong, tapestries on the walls and not captured banners, carpets instead of warg-skin rugs, white marble walls and not a blade in sight.

“Breakfast,” said Maedhros, setting the tray down in Fingon’s lap.

Fear and confusion receded swiftly, leaving only embarrassment in their wake. “It’s early,” he said vaguely, though he had no idea if that was true.

“It’s past noon. Your eggs are congealing.”

In addition to eggs the tray held coffee, apple juice, pancakes, two kinds of sausage, fiddly peach pastries that Fingon knew necessitated getting up before daybreak to prove, and a bafflingly elaborate fruit salad.

“You know we have servants for this?” Fingon said, eating a strawberry. It was perfectly ripe. “You can’t write your paper if you’re cutting melon into fractal patterns.”

“I have time,” said Maedhros blandly. He rested his chin upon his hands and watched Fingon eat, leaning forwards, occasionally, so that Fingon could feed him some of that migraine-inducing melon.

“Did you do something different with the pancakes?”

“I replaced some of the flour with almond meal. What do you think?”

“They’re good.” They were. Some decades ago Maedhros had decided, based on an offhand complaint of Fingon’s about too-pointy elbows, that he was going to get fat. He’d made no progress at all that Fingon could see unless one counted the increasing girth of his recipe book. Or, Fingon thought, considering the empty plate resting upon his stomach, the weight that Fingon had gained himself. It was an equally valid solution to the elbows issue, but not likely to help his chances in the upcoming Games.

“I should train today,” he said decisively, and then stayed exactly where he was. The bed was soft, the sheets were clean and even if he didn’t win, there was always next year.

“We could go climbing,” Maedhros ventured, although he did not seem any more inclined to move than Fingon. On the contrary, he moved the tray aside so that he could rest his head on Fingon’s belly.

“Taniquetil again?”

“Mm. We could see how long we can camp up there without supplies.”

“Hang around?” Fingon prodded.

“Mm.” With his right hand, Maedhros reached up and flicked Fingon’s nose.

They lay in silence for a while - a few minutes or a few hours, watching the progress of the sun across the wall. Out of habit more than anything, Fingon began to unpin Maedhros’ hair and rebraid it. In their youth - their first youth - Maedhros had worn it long and loose, as though to emphasise how effortlessly perfect it was. In Beleriand he’d cropped it short for practicality, and for other reasons that they did not speak of. Now it was an intricate cascade of plaits and loops and beads, far more complex than even Fingon had ever troubled to wear. It must have taken him hours.

“You should cut it,” Fingon said abruptly, taking up a finished braid and letting it drop so that it chimed prettily against the others.

“You always said you liked it long.”

“You never listened. And rightly so, I suppose; it was your hair.”

“You’d prefer it short, though? Is there anything else you’d like cut while I’m at it?” Maedhros smiled at him and Fingon _knew_ that smile, for all that on his new face it looked less vicious than insipid. Arousal cut through him like - like a blade and, beneath his nightclothes, he felt his cock stir.

It was not that they did not lie together anymore - “We can be all each other’s firsts this time!” Fingon had cried when Maedhros finally joined him outside the Halls - but it was different now. There had been a fierceness, a desperation to their lovemaking that, try as they might, they could no longer seem to match.

In Beleriand, Fingon had dreamt of days in which he and Maedhros would be free of their war and do nothing but lie abed together, unhurt and unafraid, finding comfort and pleasure both in each other’s bodies. They might do that now, easily, and yet the body that he had loved and maimed was gone. If Fingon did not miss his own old pains - the broken arm that had ached in bad weather long after the bone had knit - he missed his scars. He had won them all honestly, gloriously even, and if Maedhros’ were not all come by upon the field, they had still been marks of all he had survived. Fingon told himself that he loved the strength they represented, not the wounds themselves, but there was still something about Maedhros’ smooth, unblemished skin that felt wrong beneath his hands and lips.

It was Maedhros that he loved, not the body that contained him and even so he had not felt this hot need for him in years.

* * *

The room around them remained the same - the filter of Arien’s afternoon light, the birdsong drifting from the fields, the wall hangings (bare of any emblem, an unspoken agreement between them) lifting in the breeze from the open windows - but something had palpably shifted. A mood, or perhaps something more literal.

Maedhros felt Fingon move beneath him and glanced up at him, then down. "Ah." He raised an eyebrow and Fingon shifted again, this time a definite squirm. His fingers, which had left Maedhros' hair, were suddenly knotting in it again.

"Careful," said Maedhros, tilting his head to follow Fingon's tug, but not truly objecting. Sex might be a more interesting pastime than talking about and not going climbing. "My nephew designed these braids."

"I'll beg his forgiveness," said Fingon, and wound Maedhros' braids tighter around his hand. He might not be at peak fitness for the Games, but his grip was strong as ever. "I owe him a visit anyway. Maedhros..."

"These days I prefer 'Maitimo,'" said Maedhros, as a joke, but Fingon stilled and withdrew his hand.

"Do you really?" There was an odd note in his voice, and Maedhros sat up to look more closely at him. Fingon had his lip caught between his teeth, and as Maedhros left his lap he drew his knees up so that Maedhros could not verify that what he had felt was what he suspected.

Maedhros set their tray next to the bed and sat cross-legged himself, across from his cousin. There was a preoccupied look on Fingon’s face, one that was becoming more and more familiar to him as the years since their reunion lengthened. "You miss me, don't you?"

Fingon shook his head. An untwisted lock of hair fell into his face and Maedhros reached out to brush it aside. "I spent a century missing you, now I have you. Strawberries and all."

"You feel like you have _Maitimo_ now," said Maedhros carefully, exploring the notion. He tucked the lock behind Fingon’s ear. "Perhaps that is the problem. You once told me... You once recoiled when I suggested you might prefer me young and beautiful. Perhaps that is still your preference - the beast, rather than the beauty. The grass is always greener..." He meant it teasingly, mostly, but Fingon looked so pained that he wondered if it was true.

Fingon pulled away from him and retreated towards the headboard. His nightshirt was open over his chest, muscles smooth and unmarred, his breast exposed and alluring. Maedhros, who had not tired of Fingon's full, new flesh, was tempted to follow him to kiss it but Fingon's expression made him hang back.

"I have always loved only  _you_ ," said Fingon. "I don't care what you look like."

"But you spent a lot longer loving me broken than loving me whole."

"Eru's sack," said Fingon, ferocious all of a sudden. He reached out and hauled Maedhros close for a rough kiss. Maedhros leaned in willingly - if he hadn’t, the flimsy material of his shirt might have ripped - and angled for a swift grope while he was at it. Fingon made a noise of either appreciation or annoyance and fumbled at the slim ties that held the insubstantial drapery against Maedhros’ collarbones. A swift tug and they were undone, and the shirt slid from Maedhros’ shoulders. Fingon broke away to admire the view and then glare at him. "Can a man not want a bit of violence in his love life without being _analysed_ for it?"

"That is only permissible if you are using it to cope with trauma," said Maedhros, tossing the shirt aside. "You've been through the Halls, you have no excuse."

"Only joking," he added, as Fingon looked stricken. "Darling. I can clean off the strawberry knife if you want to get naked."

* * *

Looking at the knife, the blade filmed red with juice, filled Fingon with trepidation and another surge of fierce arousal.

“I want - ” he began, and then stopped, having no idea how to finish the sentence.

“Tell me,” Maedhros said like it was the easiest thing in the world to do. “And, while you’re telling me, undress because what I want is every inch of you laid bare.”

In hopes of distracting him - Maedhros had, historically, an extremely short attention span when in the presence Fingon’s naked body - Fingon shrugged off his nightshirt and was momentarily relieved when Maedhros draped himself across his lap with a small, delighted sound that, even after all these years made Fingon’s chest contract.

“I was awful to you before,” Maedhros said, as though it were a continuation of their conversation. “Selfish and manipulative, and I never did apologise. I’m sorry, Fingon. If I’ve said it often as of late, do not think I mean it any less.”

“You’re forgiven,” said Fingon who had never been good at holding grudges, especially not against someone grinding on his cock so enthusiastically.

Evidently realising this, Maedhros stilled. “ _That_ is what I’m talking about. You mustn’t give me what I want simply because I’ll fuck you to get it.”

“I like it when you fuck me. You’re very good at it,” Fingon said. Maedhros was wearing loose silk trousers and Fingon made short work of the drawstring that was the only thing holding them to his hips.

“I’m exceptional at it,” Maedhros agreed, wriggling out of the trousers and dropping them onto the floor. “But that’s no substitute for talking things through which, if you’re going to hurt me, we really ought to do.”

Fingon’s eyes strayed from Maedhros’ face and the pretty blush colouring his cheeks to the blade beside the bed. “Does that mean- Do you no longer want- ?”

“Violence in our love life?” Maedhros laughed. “I don’t care to be tortured - see what a fine job Estë did? But it need not be torture. Not for either of us, if we are clear and properly careful.” He sat back so that, though their legs remained tangled, Fingon could think past the growing pressure in his groin. “What do you want?”

What he had always wanted; to save Maedhros, to protect him. They never had been very good at pretending but, rarely, when Fingon hurt him as he asked and Maedhros was left slack-limbed and glassy-eyed, too overwhelmed with pain and pleasure to crawl away and lick his wounds alone, when Fingon had been able to comfort and gentle as he wished, _those_ moments had been precious. Was it strange to want that again?

Ever so lightly, Maedhros rested his right hand upon Fingon’s shin. “Fingon?”

“I want to hold you afterwards,” he said quickly. “No sulking, no storming off, no calling me a ‘damn mithering warg bitch’.”

“Did I really say - No, that does sound like me. Another thing to be sorry for.” Maedhros smiled ruefully. “If all you want is to hold me, we need only do that. I don’t know that my acting’s improved but I can promise to try it with the best will in the world.”

Fingon picked up the knife and felt as much as heard Maedhros’ breath catch. Much of what Maedhros had demanded of him in Beleriand had turned his stomach but, when Fingon thought back now, it was not so much the violence that had bothered him. “And if I want you pleading and undone? I won’t insult you or degrade you, and I will see your face-”

It was not Maedhros’ nod that reassured him but the manner of it - slow and measured, not desperate capitulation but considered agreement. And then Fingon licked the knife and was rewarded with a full body shudder and nails digging into his shin. Strawberries had never tasted so sweet.

“- Then I think that we might try this.”

* * *

Maedhros almost ruined it after that by pouncing on Fingon and sending him over backwards, unable to resist nipping those full, stained lips, or seeking that wicked tongue. Fingon might get a thrill from the danger of a blade and the promise of comfort, but Maedhros was young again, hot-blooded again, and addicted to the simple pleasures of Fingon's impossibly supple flesh under his fingers. He bent his head to suck at Fingon's nipple as his hands quested for Fingon's buttocks, and Fingon gasped and squirmed and then pushed a leg between his, a little too firmly to be sensual.

"Maedhros," he said, laughing and reproachful. "Come _on_."

Maedhros sat back, as a strong knee to the erection often offends, and tried to look sorry. "My apologies," he said, for the thousandth time, and didn't quite wink. "We were going to do things with the knife. My lord."

"We were going to try," said Fingon, doing a better job of stern than Maedhros had of sorry. He lifted his chin and for a moment Maedhros saw the king who had led armies, the prince who had slain dragons, the warrior who had hiked to hell and back for him. His heart ached, and then Fingon lowered his chin and was a fair and lovely youth again, untouched by pain.

"Let us try, then," said Maedhros, and slid off the bed to kneel beside it, his mouth even with Fingon's bare feet on the coverlet. He kissed each arch like a supplicant and stroked Fingon's ankle. "What do you have in mind?"

"I - " Fingon hesitated. Before, Maedhros had rarely asked what he had wanted, had rarely asked or prompted questions at all, much less with such persistence. His approach had been generally needling Fingon in just the right ways to get what he wanted or else letting un-negotiated squabbles take their passionate course. He looked up now and read the confusion in Fingon's eyes.

Fingon didn't know what to say.

"Do you want to draw blood?" Maedhros prompted. He kissed the bone of Fingon's ankle. "Do you want to hear me gasp in pain?"

"No," said Fingon immediately, and looked a bit surprised at himself. "Not - not actual pain."

"Anticipation," said Maedhros, and sucked on one of his toes. "Excitement, a little edge of suspense - cousin to pain, but not pain itself." He sucked the next toe. "Rather like us."

"That's a bad joke."

"A _painfully_ bad one? Ahh, no kicking!"

"I don't think I want to cut you," whispered Fingon, when they had stopped tussling. "But... I want you at my mercy."

“A king has many at his mercy,” said Maedhros, thinking of how well Fingon wore a crown. “And you are, historically, a king.”

“So, historically, are you.”

“More recently a vassal.” Maedhros looked up at Fingon through lowered lashes. “Perhaps a highly disobedient vassal. Who needs to be reminded of his place… who needs to be disciplined to your power.”

“At knifepoint?”

Maedhros smiled, his heart quickening. "Knifepoint, knife flat, or," he nudged Fingon's hand with his head like a cat, "perhaps the threat of a blade." He curved his neck and the knife in Fingon's hand slid flat first down his throat. The cool edge of it quickened his pulse, and he spread his knees a little on the floor that Fingon might see his arousal. "Lay it to my throat," he whispered, as Fingon's fingers tightened on the hilt. "Lay it to my breast. Make me understand how fragile I am before your hands."

"Get up," said Fingon, already speaking like a commander, and caught Maedhros' chin with his other hand. His thumb stroked Maedhros' lips and the knife tickled the pit of his throat. "On your feet."

Maedhros stood obediently as Fingon’s eyes raked him hungrily. "Am I to do all you say?" he murmured, and then, to watch the blood rise in Fingon, he added, “Sire?”

"I - Yes. You are." Fingon unwrapped and rewrapped his fingers around the knife’s hilt. "But not if..." He was remembering, Maedhros could tell. Remembering times when he had done all he wished with Maedhros as Maedhros had demanded and something had gone too far, something Maedhros had never warned him about, and they would end with Maedhros curled on the floor again, not responding, not speaking, and Fingon insensible with fear and guilt.

Maedhros caught his hand and held it to his cheek. "You have my permission to do what you will to me. If you go past my comfort, I will tell you. If I do not wish something, if I want to stop, I will say so."

Fingon looked torn. "What if..."

He was having to employ a lot of guesswork to fill in Fingon's pauses, but Maedhros supposed it was only just penance. "What if you want a bit of begging and pleading without worrying it's real?" He thought a moment. "In that case, I shall say something so obviously not in character that it will be clear it's a cue to stop."

"Like what?"

"Uhm." Maedhros tried to think of something he definitely wouldn't say in flagrante. "Warg patties."

Fingon let out a snort of laughter and Maedhros grinned. "See? It'll work. Now, my lord, are you going to order me to suck your cock at knife point or am I going to have to order you to order me to do it for you?"

"Back on on your knees, villain," said Fingon, laughing and bold and everything Maedhros loved. "Lock your hands behind you and spread your thighs and we will see how well your endurance lasts."

Maedhros had never surrendered more happily before a blade.

* * *

It was different, Fingon told himself, the blade’s razor edge following the line of Maedhros’ clavicle until the point settled in the hollow at the base of his throat. It would take no pressure at all to draw blood, only an inch to end it all. But it was different. No matter his oft-demonstrated enthusiasm for Fingon’s new flesh, no matter his old eagerness for pain, Maedhros stayed as still as Fingon had commanded, lips twisted slightly by a smile.

“Do you wish me to endure not sucking you off or…?”

Moving with a speed born of a first life bathed in Treelight and a long age spent at war, Fingon drew back the knife as his other hand caught Maedhros by the hair and dragged him forwards so sharply he might have fallen had the grip been any slacker. Fingon felt rather than heard the resulting gasp, a puff of warm air against his bare stomach. His erection brushed Maedhros’ cheek and Fingon relaxed his grip enough that Maedhros might turn his head and do as he had ordered Fingon to order him to do.

The pull would not have hurt him, was nothing they had not just agreed to.

It was different than before.

“Wait,” Fingon said anyway, as Maedhros closed his mouth over him. “Wait. Was that-?”

With surprisingly good grace, Maedhros pulled back and licked his lips. “If I want to stop, I will say so,” he repeated, and his voice was very grave. “So will you.” And then, more lightly; “My lord, I am at your mercy, do not prolong this. Please, please, I cannot-”

What Maedhros could not do he did not say because Fingon, with the hand still in his hair, and that which yet held the knife cupping his cheek, pressed him forwards to take his cock.

“Deeper,” he ordered, not because Maedhros needed to be told what he liked but for the heady pleasure of giving orders. If he did not miss everything that came with being a king, he missed this power.

Maedhros was less careful of his teeth than he had been before - they were nowhere near as sharp - but in all other ways it was like Beleriand. Like the best of it, anyway. He still remembered the slow rhythm Fingon liked, still flicked his tongue over the head just so, and he still moaned about the shaft as Fingon pressed deeper. His own erection stood unattended, flushed and leaking, and Fingon contemplated ordering him to touch himself but didn’t.

Instead, he let the point of the knife trace the pointed tip of Maedhros’ ear. Even that small pressure left a pale line like the wake of a ship, swiftly fading, notable only in the way it made the opposite ear twitch and Maedhros whine and unclasp his hands to clutch at Fingon’s thighs.

“Can you not restrain yourself?” Fingon snapped, pressing the flat of the knife to Maedhros’ throat, tugging him off by his hair. “Must I do it for you?”

Maedhros gasped and mouthed some half-baked plea for mercy but he was already re-fastening his hands behind his back for binding, his cock twitching with unconcealed interest.

There were tasselled ropes tying back the hangings of the bed but Fingon ignored them. Instead, he twisted his handful of Maedhros’ braids into a thick, shining coil. He allowed a moment to admire the silky feel of it beneath his hands, and to enjoy the way Maedhros’ eyes lit when he realised what Fingon intended, a moment to search his face for anything other than shared joy and fierce delight.

It was different than before.

They could never have done this in Beleriand, not with Maedhros’ ruined shoulder, but now it was easy to guide his hands high up his back enough to bind and still have a little slack left in the improvised rope.

“How’s that?” he asked, breaking character, and Maedhros obediently tested his bonds and then made an abortive gesture that must have been intended as a nod.

“Awkward. But I like it.” He tested the knots again, more deliberately, arching his back and tensing to show his arms to best effect.

Maedhros trusted him, that had never been in doubt. It was no small relief for Fingon to find he trusted Maedhros too. “Good,” he said, taking up the knife again, making his voice rough and imperious. “I believe someone has orders to carry out.”

* * *

Maedhros shivered, not needing to put on an act at the way Fingon's voice affected him. He had always been weak for Fingon giving orders, Fingon in commanding control - the number of times he had hardened beneath his armour hearing Fingon shout orders to his troops -

Fingon looked down at him, imperious and beautiful, and in a moment he was in Barad Eithel again, kneeling before the High King and letting his lips brush a signet ring.

_"My liege, I am yours."_

_Fingon's eyes on him, lit by the shine of his crown. Maedhros' pride, Maedhros' urge to kiss his palm and swear -_

_"Don't lie to your king, cousin," Fingon had murmured, too soft for the audience to hear. "I know I must always play second fiddle to your other oath." Then he had taken Maedhros by his golden hand and pulled him to his feet and given him a kiss on each cheek - one noble kinsman to another._

He blinked and was back in the sun-lit, familiar rooms. Fingon was crownless, clothesless, aroused before him and tickling him with a fruit knife while tying him up with his own hair.

Maedhros laughed.

Fingon slapped him lightly. "You find this funny, do you?"

Maedhros chewed the inside of his cheek but couldn't stop his eyes from sparkling up at Fingon. It was strange to be this ripe with joy, he felt it must be seeping from his very pores. He grasped for obedience again. "No, my lord. Never, my lord. Quite humourless, my lord. Can I suck your cock again?"

His arms bound behind him, he couldn't pull Fingon as close as he wanted, unable to grab a handful of Fingon's impeccable thighs that he might bury his face between them. But with encouraging sounds and a slackening of his throat, he got Fingon to press him deeper until his nose was buried in the soft curls of Fingon's groin and Fingon was panting above him.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, Maedhros, Maitimo, _Valar_ , you are beautiful with my cock down your throat."

Maedhros, who was concentrating on his breathing, didn't answer but pressed his tongue to the underside of Fingon's shaft. He wasn't sure how to remind Fingon that he still had a knife loosely clasped in one hand, but a gentle scrape of teeth seemed to do it. The blade returned to the soft spot behind Maedhros' ear, and Maedhros growled his satisfaction.

Fingon cursed several more times and his hand jerked, the knife tip nicking Maedhros' skin. Maedhros twitched but didn't stop sucking, and it was Fingon who noticed the blood and pulled back with a small sound of distress.

"Ai, I am sorry! I didn't mean to, I meant it when I said I didn't want to make you bleed - "

Maedhros coughed a couple times and licked his lips. He wanted to wipe his mouth but was unable to do so, and felt drool slip down his chin. "Barely felt it, I'm afraid."

Fingon pressed his thumb to the spot and pulled it away, bloody.

"Not bad," said Maedhros. "I've seen you do better, though."

Fingon narrowed his eyes at him, even as Maedhros saw a competitive light flicker in them. "Not the intent."

"You're right, I'm being impertinent. Punish me? Please?" He remembered to stop sounding cheeky just in time. "P-please," he said again, in more of a whimper.

"You're sure you aren't hurt?" When Maedhros nodded - or tried, his hair still pulled tight - Fingon licked the blood from his hand and spread his legs wider on the bed. "Good. Get up here."

Moving somewhat awkwardly but no less eagerly, Maedhros straddled Fingon's lap, Fingon keeping him from over-balancing with hands on his hips. He checked the knots at Maedhros' wrists while Maedhros took advantage of their positions to press himself enthusiastically against Fingon's stomach.

"Cheating," crooned Fingon, leaning back. He wrapped his hand around Maedhros anyway and stroked him lightly, slicking him up with the fluid leaking from his cock head.

"Mmm, you are too good to me, sire," murmured Maedhros, tightening his thighs and thrusting his cock into Fingon's hand. His hips jerked as Fingon's thumb flicked over the slit. "Oh, _damn_."

"Just giving you a little respite before the real fun starts," said Fingon, and he pulled his hand away.

Maedhros whined. "Ahh, but you are a cruel master..."

"You have no idea." Fingon spat on his fingers and pressed them behind Maedhros' balls. But before he entered him he looked up and caught Maedhros' eye. "Is this alright?" he whispered, and Maedhros bent down as best he could to kiss him.

"Yes."

Maedhros arched his back and moaned as Fingon's fingers breached him, and he simultaneously felt the knife resume its taunting tracery across his skin.

"if you're very good," said Fingon, as he kept fucking Maedhros open on his fingers. "I'll consider carving my initials into your thigh."

"Holy _fuck_ , Fingon."

* * *

Fingers still deep inside him, Fingon pressed the knife to Maedhros’ leg, scant inches from his unattended cock. With the very tip of the blade, he traced the tengwar of his name, a catscratch that left reddened skin but no blood. Not yet. Maedhros squirmed, caught between rocking back against Fingon’s hand and pressing into the prick of the blade.

Fingon did not leave the choice to him but withdrew his fingers and withdrew the knife. A buck of his hips and Maedhros, unable to balance with his arms so bound, was thrown forwards against his chest. Fingon caught him - he always did - and held him, revelling in the way his breath caught and his eyes went very wide at the reminder of his helplessness.

“I could do anything I wanted to you, every filthy thing I’ve ever dreamt of, and there’s not a thing you could do to stop me.”

Maedhros’ smile said plainly, ‘Whyever would I want to?’ but, voice shaking, he said, ‘Please, my lord, have mercy.”

“Do you deserve it?”

“No.” He was writhing again, trying to grind against Fingon’s stomach, stilling only when Fingon brought his hand down upon his arse with a resounding smack.

They kept oil in the nightstand - in every room they thought they could reasonably get away with it - and Fingon reached for it now. He made a show of slicking his cock with slow, indolent movements, Maedhros watching with catlike intensity, breathing heavily through parted lips still wet and red from sucking Fingon off.

Bound so, Maedhros’ head was forced back so that Fingon could watch a bead of sweat trace a path down the column of his bared neck, over skin unmarred by blades or the chafe of a collar. If Fingon did do as he promised, his name would be the first scars this body would ever bear. It felt almost disloyal to enjoy Maedhros like this, young and achingly beautiful once more. If it did not make a lie of all the times Fingon had promised he still loved his cousin maimed and scarred, still he felt guilty.

They would speak of it, he decided. If there were no dragons to slay, surely getting to the heart of this matter was challenge enough and he knew now, looking up at Maedhros, it was not one he faced alone.

So resolved, he caught Maedhros by the hips and drew him up onto his knees and then down onto Fingon’s cock. He’d not prepared Maedhros overmuch and the tightness of him, the clench of muscle as Fingon forced him to take it in one long, slow thrust was so much that Fingon almost did not hear him speak.

“I- I can’t, my lord, please, it’s too much, _I can’t_ -”

Hands on Maedhros’ hips, Fingon did not stop because Maedhros kept his promises and pleading, however desperate, was not ‘warg patties’. He did slow though, until Maedhros paused in his begging enough to catch his eye and offer him the briefest wink.

“You can,” Fingon said firmly, “And you will.”

Maedhros gave a small sob of despair that was only slightly marred by the clack of his teeth as Fingon pulled his hips down so he was fully seated within him. His head thrown back, teeth bared, he looked both savage and spectacular and Fingon wrapped his arms around his waist and drew him close.

"You are still my monster," he whispered, unable to hold onto his act. "Beautiful, ferocious, how I love you..."

Maedhros shifted in his lap, drawing groans from them both, and tried to bow his great head to meet Fingon's lips. Still holding him with one hand, Fingon fumbled at the shining red tresses binding his wrists with the other. With a growl, Maedhros freed his hands and brought them both around to clasp Fingon's face. Fingon closed his eyes, feeling Maedhros press fervent kisses to his eyelids.

He leaned his head into Maedhros’ right hand, the touch a grounding counterpoint to the intensity of Maedhros tight around him. "Mnn. I still expect to feel steel sometimes."

"Me too," murmured Maedhros, licking a line to his ear. "Miss it?"

"A little. Is that alright?"

Maedhros twisted his hips as he slid his fingers into Fingon's hair, lowering his head to nip at Fingon's temples. He had always been apt to get distracted by Fingon's hair; some things never changed. "It doesn't bother me," he said and closed his teeth around the rings at Fingon's ears. "I miss it too, sometimes."

"You do?"

"Yes. The sounds you used to make when I would fuck you open with a steel fist..." Maedhros sighed poetically, breath heavy in Fingon's ear, and Fingon groaned.

"We're doing that next."

"Yes, sire." Maedhros rolled his hips demandingly again and Fingon stood up, gripping Maedhros firmly under the buttocks. Maedhros gasped as Fingon settled deeper into him and wrapped his legs around Fingon's waist. "What are you - " He broke off with a grunt as Fingon closed the short distance to the wall and slammed Maedhros' back to it.

"Hold on," Fingon ordered him, but it was hardly necessary as Maedhros' arms tightened around his shoulders. As Fingon bent his head to savage Maedhros' neck, he started to fuck him against the wall in swift, punishing thrusts.

Maedhros cried out so loudly Fingon was sure he'd have complaints from his neighbors later. He snarled his satisfaction and sank his teeth into Maedhros' neck, not letting up his pace. Maedhros wailed again, his voice breaking and roughening, and Fingon shuddered. He was remembering the battle cries that set a cold sweat breaking over the skin of all who heard them; the shouted commands that set a slow fire burning in his belly; the low, hoarse voice that whispered terrible love to him in the long night. His teeth drew blood as he drove deeper into Maedhros, his climax roaring close.

Maedhros was to have his first scar in his second life after all, and it felt only right that it took place under Fingon's worshipful lips.  

* * *

Even as he shuddered with the force of his release, Fingon kept Maedhros pinned, strong as the cold stone at his back. The sharp, bright pain of Fingon’s teeth at his throat and the hot pulse of his cock deep within him were so close to tipping him over yet nothing like enough and he clawed at Fingon’s bare shoulders in desperation.

“Please,” he gasped, voice scratchy with need, struggling against Fingon’s grip for all the friction he could have. They were still joined and Maedhros could feel his muscles twitch and clench about Fingon’s softening cock, even as he rutted blindly against Fingon’s stomach, knowing none of it would relieve him. “Fingon, please-”

“Hush,” Fingon rumbled into his ear. “You know what you agreed to. You’ll come when I say you can.”

As Fingon’s hand closed about his cock, Maedhros sobbed with relief. And then sobbed again, this time in frustration, when the hand remained exactly where it was, wrapped snug about the base. “I’ll bite,” he hissed. “I’ll bite your face.”

“That might have been threatening once,” Fingon said and showed his own white teeth in a dazzling smile. Maedhros’ shoulder throbbed at the reminder and he writhed hard enough he almost overbalanced them both before remembering himself. Though the merciless grip of his hand did not relax at all, Fingon's cock slid out of him with a wet, filthy sound that made Maedhros shudder and Fingon growl appreciatively.

To keep from clawing Fingon’s hand away so that he might bring himself off, or choking him for being so damn unreasonable, Maedhros buried his hands in Fingon’s hair, seeking distraction in the rough, heavy ropes of it, taking comfort in the warm, familiar smell. He dreaded to think of the state of his own hair, knotted and damp with sweat and - his grip on Fingon’s hair tightened as some of Fingon’s come slid from him - hopefully not other things.

“ _That_ won’t do,” Fingon said, as though he had spoken. Maedhros had to cling to him tightly as Fingon readjusted the hand that had been supporting his buttocks so that his fingers could slide through the come slicking his inner thighs and press inside him. “Mm. I can tell you’ve been well used.”

Maedhros did bite at that, a sharp nip to the corner of Fingon’s jaw, partly overwhelmed with relief at being filled again and partly in frustration at the growing ache in his balls. “Not well enough.”

“No?” There were three fingers inside him, then Fingon’s hand withdrew a little and there came the rough stretch of four. That discomfort was grounding at first, like the smart of the bite on his shoulder, but as Fingon worked him open further, worked more of the come back inside him, it gave way to heat and unadulterated pleasure. Fingon’s hand was like an iron fetter about his cock and Maedhros cursed him, fluently and vilely in Quenya and Sindarin and then, when those elegant tongues did not suffice, he reached for words of another language. They did not come to him as easily as before - they could not steal his tongue from him as they once had - but they came at his command. Perhaps it was perverse but it pleased him to think that the Enemy’s great tool for silencing his slaves was now used only to whisper what amounted to endearments to a lover.

“Eru, Maedhros, if you could _hear_ yourself,” Fingon said, as though garbled curses in the Black Speech and pleas for harder, faster, were the loveliest thing he’d ever heard. “You’d come on the spot.”

“I wouldn’t,” Maedhros said through gritted teeth, nails clawing furrows in Fingon’s back that surely he’d regret when he could think of anything but the pressure in his cock and Fingon’s hand working inside him. “Because _you’re not letting me_.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Please, _yes_ , Fingon, fuck, let me-”

And Fingon did.

* * *

Fingon felt Maedhros tense and shake in his arms, his teeth carving a matching mark into Fingon's shoulder. Below, where his fingers disappeared into Maedhros, he could feel the hot, wet grip of muscle, and soon the drip of Maedhros' seed joining his own. Then Maedhros went limp against him, a dead weight hanging around his neck, and Fingon tried to straighten up so as not to crush Maedhros against the wall.

He righted himself with a groan and gathered Maedhros close, murmuring gentle rebukes at Maedhros' trailing limbs even as he kissed him tenderly. "Did you have to grow them out quite this long this time around? Honestly, you'd think you were compensating for something - Ouch, no more teeth! Not until we're back to the bed or I'm going to drop you."

"You wouldn't dare," mumbled Maedhros. "What if I broke when I hit the floor? You'd feel terrible."

"Plus the mess," Fingon agreed. "Hold on and stop biting."

Despite his threats he lowered Maedhros very gently to their bed, rolling him to the sheets. "Let me get a rag," he said, eying Maedhros' stomach, his own hand, and the general state of them both.

"So prissy," said Maedhros, turning over, and Fingon took the opportunity to smack his bottom again.

"Impertinent. Don't go anywhere."

"Hmmnl," said Maedhros into the pillow, and Fingon went to the washroom for a damp cloth.

When he came back, his own hands washed, and bent over the bed, Maedhros had rolled onto his back and was watching him.

"Speaking of growing things back bigger than before," he said. "Have you been taking those crackpot supplements the herbwives sell? Your cock - "

"Is exactly as it was, thank you," said Fingon, dragging the cloth down Maedhros' stomach. "Home-grown, organic, and unenhanced. And it wasn't my cock that made you come, anyway."

"That was my follow-up point," said Maedhros. "I think your hands have grown too. Not complaining! In fact, I was a little...well..." His voice trailed off and Fingon lifted the rag.

"What?"

"Disappointed you didn't add your thumb, too."

Fingon dropped the rag and bent down to kiss him. "If only you had specified that request in your negotiations."

“I know." Maedhros locked his hands into Fingon's hair and pulled him over on top of him. "I have lately found my negotiation skills lacking something."

"Like a full fist. Or treachery."

"Yes," said Maedhros, biting him. "Definitely more fists. Definitely more treachery. Can we do that next?"

Fingon had had enough treachery to last a lifetime, but Maedhros was his eternal exception.

"Of course," he said agreeably, hooking his ankles under Maedhros' shins. "You want me to betray you, or you to betray me?"

"Depends. Who's on top?"

They debated the logistics for a pleasant few minutes before Fingon ran his thumb over the mark he’d left on Maedhros' skin.

"You won't be able to wear that off-the-shoulder thing for a couple days," he said in some regret, looking to where it lay upon the floor, a crumpled pool of plum-coloured silk.

"Watch me." Maedhros yawned and stretched and wiggled a little under Fingon. "How do you like your matching one, milord?"

Fingon craned his neck to try and see his own mark. "Considerably shallower than it might have been in times past, I thank you. You should know it’s deeply arousing to have you sink your teeth into me at the moment of climax, like - " He tried to think. “Like you're attempting to consume me utterly."

"Something like that," said Maedhros. "Also I was trying to keep the screaming to a minimum - I took Finarfin's note of protest to heart - and had to muffle myself somehow."

Fingon grinned and slid off Maedhros' chest into the hollow of his arm. He curled up and pressed his nose to Maedhros' bare collarbone, another place he might consider writing his initials. "That worked pretty well, didn't it?" he murmured. "I thought at first - stopping to ask questions, you know - might throw off the mood."

"Not as much as traumatic breakdowns or dangerous blood loss do," said Maedhros, kissing the top of Fingon's head and tracing a coronet where one had not sat for many years. "I'd hazard to say that was better than we've done in years, questions and all."

Fingon stopped to think if this was true and if he was a little offended by the premise, but ultimately landed on acquiescence. "Mm. Is this how we do it, going forward?"

"I hope so," said Maedhros. He gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling. "We have many more hobbies to work through and this could incorporate a number of them. For example, I think your knot-tying could have benefited from my insights - I was being gracious by not breaking free. You should take a dwarf braid course, _then_ you can tie me up and not worry I'll burst my bonds. Honestly, Fingon, you could have done much b - "

He broke off as Fingon stuffed an apple into his mouth. "Does this mean our time in bed will involve fewer fruit salads and more intricate bondage?" he asked, while Maedhros chewed.

Maedhros swallowed his mouthful and smiled, as wicked a creature as he had ever been. "Why not both?"


End file.
